Dinner with Overthinking

Making plans with Overthinking is never straightforward.

He messaged me several times during the week, changing the time and location of our dinner. In one of the messages, he mentioned he was worried I might misinterpret the purpose of our meeting.

At first, I didn’t mind. By the fifth message, I was getting annoyed.

Every change he made meant I had to adjust my plans. I told him firmly we should just decide on the day and time - we would figure everything else out later. I am not sure if he got upset or relieved, but I could tell his tone changed. He became shorter with me.

My words were gentle. I wasn’t trying to offend him; I simply wanted to make things easier. Still, something shifted. Did he feel I took away his ability to make the decision? I don’t know.

The restaurant he chose was beautiful. It was one of those places where noise obtains a hushed, soft quality. Soft furniture, white linen on the tables, tea lights dotted around, mirrors reflecting their light. Conversations are quiet, soft music is playing in the background. When you walk in, you feel like you’re inside a velvet jewellery box.

It was busy, but Overthinking thought in advance and booked us a table. A nice gesture that allowed us to avoid being turned away.

The waiter brought us the menu, in a somewhat monotonous voice told us today’s specials and left us to think for a minute. I could see Overthinking’s head spinning. He was looking at the menu as if it was the most complicated instruction manual. He was reading it out loud, thinking out loud too - which dish sounds better, whether he should have a starter and main, or main and dessert because all three would be too much. Pondering whether he should eat meat or fish because it is quite late in the evening and meat makes him feel heavy. Whether he should have wine or stick to a beer.

I felt familiar irritation again. Not because he couldn’t decide, but because I felt him pulling me into it. I didn’t want to be there. A thought crossed my mind that maybe I am allowing him to drag me along. I didn’t have to ride his thought wave.

Food order out of the way meant I had an opportunity to look at Overthinking closely. At first, he looks well put together – nicely ironed shirt, silver cufflinks glistening occasionally, neatly shaven face, tidy haircut. But when you look closer you notice details giving away his erratic side – brows pinched together, tight lips, fingers drumming the table. One wouldn’t pay attention to it, but knowing Overthinking’s nature, it feels out of place. I can see he feels tense even though his eyes look calm. Lost in thought is an appropriate phrase for him.

We fall into a conversation. He tells me about work, about friends in common, about his health. At first, it seems to be heading into a pleasant direction, but the more we talk, the more his doubt starts creeping in. He dissects situations in a way that there is no space left for my input. He seems to be asking himself questions, while also looking at me for approval. I can feel myself getting annoyed again.

He looks so composed on the outside, yet inside everything is in motion. With him, there is no “yes” or a “no” - only “what if?”. His inability to decide made it difficult to be around him. I wanted to ask him why he makes it so much more difficult for himself, why doesn’t he simply let go, but I knew this would not land well.

I wanted to help him, but I also didn’t. Had I done this before – tried to untangle his thoughts for him? Or had I simply never drawn a boundary? And now, was I starting to overthink?

Shaking my head slightly, I pulled myself out of my mental loop. I didn’t miss much - he was still analysing the same situation.

When I tuned back in, he was still circling the same thought. I caught glimpses of doubt’s siblings – lack of confidence, low self-esteem, need for validation. His chatter was laced with them, churning his thoughts into a mess he couldn’t untangle himself. No wonder he clings to perfection - it’s the only way he can feel in control.

I wonder what happened to him over the years? Where did this ability to complicate come from? Something must have set it in motion.

I could feel Empathy creeping in (funnily enough, I am meeting her next week). If it’s difficult for me to be around him, what must it be like for him to live with himself?

That doesn’t mean I can sit with him endlessly, listening to his rambling thoughts. I also have a right to get annoyed and express it. But this realisation allows me to be at least a little bit more patient with him.

I know there’s something underneath all those thoughts.

I just can’t put my finger on what it is.